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At Thanksgiving, my son’s wife charged me $45 for my plate. Her own parents ate free, and I’d baked both pies. “Everybody pays their fair share now, Mom,” she said. I smiled, paid her in cash and asked for a receipt.
I worked the deli counter at Kroger for thirty-one years. I can still slice a pound of ham without looking at the scale, and I still keep every birthday in the family on the calendar by my phone. I’m sixty-eight now, and I’ve been a widow for seven years.
Thanksgiving had been at my son Kyle’s house in Wapakoneta since his daddy passed. I brought what I always brought: homemade noodles, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, and the good rolls from the bakery. Kyle used to say, “Nobody makes noodles like you, Mom.”
I liked hearing it. I liked being part of the day, not just somebody who arrived with dishes and left with empty pans. Kyle and I had plenty of years when things were tight, but I never minded helping him. I thought we understood each other.
His wife, Brittany, had set the table real pretty. Her mama and daddy, Ron and Debbie, had come over from the next town. We had just finished the blessing when Brittany slid an index card beside my plate. In her neat handwriting it said, “Georgia. Turkey, sides, dessert. $45.”
I laughed because I thought it was a joke. Nobody else laughed.
“We’re doing things different this year,” Brittany said. “Everybody pays their fair share now, Mom.”
I looked down the table. There wasn’t a card by Ron’s plate or Debbie’s.
“Mom and Dad are helping with the dishes,” Brittany said, as if that settled it.
I looked at Kyle. He found something very interesting in his mashed potatoes. I was being charged for a slice of my own pecan pie, and my son couldn’t meet my eyes.
I wish I could say I stood up and told them exactly what I thought. I didn’t. I felt embarrassed, and I was angry enough that I didn’t trust my voice. So I opened my coin purse and counted out two twenties and a five.
“There you go, honey. Could I get a receipt?”
Brittany blinked. Then she wrote PAID across the card and handed it back. I tucked it in my purse and ate every bite of the turkey.
On the drive home, I kept both hands on the wheel and did math. Five years earlier, Kyle had called after he lost his job at the plant.
“Mom, can you put us on your phone plan? Just till we get back on our feet.”
Of course I said yes. That was four lines, counting the family lines he needed. Two years later, Ron’s company took his work phone away. Kyle called again.
“Mom, could you add Brittany’s folks? Just for a while.”
That made seven lines, counting mine. I also had Kyle’s truck on my car insurance because it gave him a discount. The phone plan and insurance came out of my account every month. Together it was about $310.
Brittany thought her husband paid the phone bill. Kyle had never told her otherwise. Ron and Debbie thought it was Kyle’s plan, too. I had kept it that way because I didn’t want to make Kyle feel small after the job loss. Then the years went by, and I let myself call that kindness.
When I got home, I called my sister.
“Dot, she charged me for my plate.”
“She did what?”
“Forty-five dollars. Her mama and daddy ate free.”
Dot didn’t answer for a second. Then she said, “Georgia Ann, you’re paying for Ron Schaefer’s cell phone?”
I told her I was.
“That man has a bass boat.”
I laughed once, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. The next week, I called Kyle to talk about the phone bill. Brittany must have been standing right there because she took the phone.
“Don’t you start, Georgia. You’re going to make a fuss over $45?”
“I’m just asking about the phone bill, honey.”
“If that’s how it’s going to be, maybe you should spend Christmas by yourself.”
Then she hung up.
I sat at my kitchen table for a long time. I’m not a petty woman. I had never kept a tally of every time I helped my own family, and the thought of turning those bills into a family fight made me feel mean. Around midnight I asked myself if I was about to throw away my grandkids over $45.
Then I took that index card out of my purse and read it again. Turkey, sides, dessert. Everybody pays their fair share.
The next morning, I drove to the phone store and sat down with a young man with a goatee.
“Can I take people off my plan and give them their own?”
“Yes, ma’am. They’ll just need to set up their own accounts.”
“What does each line cost me?”
He printed it all out, line by line. I called my insurance man about Kyle’s truck and got the information on that, too. I put the papers in a folder and took them home.
I bought a box of little red Christmas envelopes at the dollar store and some candy canes. Then I wrote each person’s fair share down as neatly as Brittany had written mine. One for Kyle, one for Brittany, one for Ron, and one for Debbie. I kept the grandkids’ lines. I pay for those gladly. I’m their grandma.
